Sherlock's Struggle
by John Faina
Summary: It is a relatively normal evening in 221b Baker Street...until Sherlock graces the floor in front of him, and everything changes.
1. Chapter 1

John is sitting on the couch reading the day's newspaper, a frown lightly in place, when everything changes.

Sherlock closes John's laptop, and stands. He walks over to him, fiddling absently with the tie of his blue satin dressing gown, and slowly sinks down to his knees, kneeling between John's legs, looking up at the wide expanse of newspaper. His own eyes look back at him from the front page.

Blinking, John lowers the paper.

There is an intense sort of gleam. John has never seen a face so intense. And this is not _I'm-on-a-case _intense, no - it is something else entirely. His breath catches. He can feel, he can _sense_ with utter assuredness that something monumental is about to happen, and that he will never forget it as long as he lives. He quietly clears his throat.

Sherlock closes his eyes as if John has done something particularly wonderful or clever. His hands are clasped in his lap and his head is slightly bowed; he could be praying. John sets the newspaper aside. When Sherlock opens his eyes, he also lifts his hands to his lips in a prayer fashion, then lowers them again, the firm lips trembling.

"Thank you," he manages.

There is so much blue. Moments pass in silence. John swallows. He takes in a shaky breath. Sherlock isn't finished and the delicacy and intensity of the situation is making him feel light-headed.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock says again, just to see if he can, in fact.

Sincerity. "You're welcome," says John. Has he ever said anything to Sherlock that wasn't sincere? he wonders.

Sherlock rises up a little. "You are...invaluable to me."

The slight change in posture, the verbal acknowledgement from John, the subtle lighting of the already fire-blue eyes...these are the small clues that tell John his best friend is currently a train gathering speed. He clenches his jaw, half inside the train, half on the tracks. This is about to happen.

"John, _you_...are my best friend."

"Yes," John says softly, nodding.

Sherlock wrings his hands in his lap and nods as well. It seems he had been hoping for confirmation of this, for he appears immensely relieved. So much so, that John leans forward with a small smile, and squeezes his shoulder.

"But I feel I should tell you...more."

"More?"

"Quite a lot more, yes."

"Okay."

"Well, to begin - "

"Wait." John holds up a hand, taking in Sherlock's nervous expression.

"Yes?"

"Have you got a speech prepared?" John's eyes twinkle.

Sherlock stares at him.

"Seriously, Sherlock, you're kneeling on the floor before me like you're about to ask for my hand in marriage." The words tumble out of his mouth before he knows what he is saying. What the hell is he saying?

"W...What are you saying, John?" Sherlock asks, tilting his head at him. John mentally straps a bomb to himself, shaking his own head.

"Nothing, I'm...being an idiot. Sorry. Continue."

Sherlock's eyes rove over his face, and John can see that he has hurt him. It is barely there, but it is clearly there. John has come to be able to distinguish the different emotions that Sherlock so often attempts to conceal, and now he almost wishes he hasn't. Except, he doesn't know which is worse.

"No - " he says, "don't - "

But the world's only Consulting Detective springs to his feet with a sudden, panicked look in his eye and rushes over to the window to pick up his violin. John follows him. He gently plucks the bow from his best friend's hands, forcing him to, in turn, put down the intrument.

"Turn around, please," he says.

Sherlock doesn't.

"Sherlock," he firmly pleads.

Sherlock does not turn around. So John gets in between him and the window, hands gripping his elbows, and slowly wraps himself around the long body in a hug, his cheek pressed tightly to Sherlock's chest.

"John - "

"I know."

"But - "

"I know."

"But I - "

"I know, though."

"You are infuriating."

Sherlock winds his long arms around him, resting his cheek on top of John's head. Everything has changed. And John is relieved.


	2. Chapter 2

They touch more often.

Casual little touches that pass under the attention of those around them, but which mean the world to both of them. Pats on the shoulder, hands covering hands, and once, John recalls a rather memorable morning when Sherlock, in the heat and excitement of having taken up a new case, kissed him on the cheek before dashing off.

The touches are escalading. They sit side-by-side on the couch, their thighs pressed together from the side. John brushes dust and other debris from Sherlock's curls. Sherlock touches the small of John's back to move him along. Their hearts race and their eyes meet and they exchange silent messages.

This evening, they are to be found on the couch again. The telly is not on. Sherlock rests with his feet in John's lap and tells him how much he had needed him today.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John says, his thumbs massaging the sole of Sherlock's left foot. "I was needed down at the surgery, too."

"Yes, yes, I know." Sherlock sighs, closing his eyes, his head tips back against the armrest. He is stiff as a pole, but John knows that this is not a bad thing. He switches to the other foot.

"Why didn't you aspire to become a masseuse?"

"A masseur, you mean."

Sherlock opens one eye with one raised eyebrow. A corner of his mouth lifts. "Yes," he says slowly. John chuckles.

"I dunno."

"Hm."

They stay in comfortable silence. Sherlock flexes his toes and sits up, drawing his legs underneath his body. John bites his tongue, holding out one arm in welcome, and wraps it around him as soon as soft curls brush his cheek. Sherlock has had a bad day.

"Don't forget, you're fantastic," he says softly.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock replies, his voice thick. "I am incomprehendibly grateful for all those things you think of me, though a few of them are undoubtably false."

"Like what, for instance?" John asks, patiently threading his fingers through Sherlock's hair, pushing it back, away from his forehead. Sherlock presses into the contact.

"I am not, for one, as caring as you seem to think I am."

"I have never thought you were _caring_, per se. But don't try to pretend to me that you don't _care_. I saw that distressed look in your eye throughout the interrogation of the little boy who'd been beaten. And I know for a fact that when you were thirteen, you rescued a bird from your family's cat."

"Mycroft," Sherlock growls and John laughs. "Nevertheless, John, I'm not - "

"If I say you are, then you are. Case closed."

"Cold case, then."

John kisses his temple. "You don't have to pretend with me, Sherlock. I know you feel things. Perhaps not in the way everyone else feels things, granted, but you _do_ feel them intensely. And it scares you, so you try to lock them away. You've been hurt by these feelings before. They have betrayed you. But listen to me," John says, speaking now into his ear, "you know what I think of you. I am _never _going to use your feelings against you, or insist that you can't feel them, they make you weak. Instead, what I'm going to do, is tell you how wonderful and beautiful you are, for everything that you are. Because you _are_...the most amazing person I've ever known. And that is undoubtably _not_ false."

Sherlock was trembling. "I know that, John. I know where I stand with you."

"So that means if you want to cry after I make you watch _Titanic_ with me - " Sherlock snorts, " - I'll cry with you. No questions asked."

Sherlock is really trembling hard. John wraps his other arm around him securely, shushing him.

"John - I - I - I - I know I - oh, for God _sakes_." He says this last phrase through clenched teeth. He is embarrassed at himself for stuttering. John does not blame him for it in the slightest, of course. He waits, because he knows how difficult this is. Sherlock swallows and tries again. "I-I know what I'm feeling now," he gets out. "Would you - would you like to hear it?"

"Yes." John rubs his arm vigorously. "I would very much like to hear it."

"I - " Sherlock releases a shaky breath. "My heart is pounding, a-and my throat seems to be closing up over a lump. My p-palms are damp. My stomach is t-twisting i-in a pleasant, yet very frightening way, and I feel as if I h-have no control over my nerves. Please help," he finishes.

"Oh, Sherlock," John says, stroking his hair. "I don't think I can help you with that." His own throat is closing.

"Why? Why not?"

"Well, because it's - I mean, how often do you feel this way?"

"Whenever I am near you, I feel this way. It is unbearable."

John loves this man so much it is painful. "No, Sherlock, it's _good_."

"Good?"

"Good, yes."

"Why is it?"

"Because now I can do _this_." John leans back and grips Sherlock's face with two hands before pressing a chaste kiss to his pink lips.


	3. Chapter 3

"John?"

It is obvious from the tone that Sherlock is getting the hang of it. He is beginning to understand that he is allowed to be uncertain in John's presence. He is allowed to make mistakes. And John is allowed to call him an idiot.

John is also allowed to kiss him.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock gazes at him through his computer screen. John can't kiss him. He is wearing the bloody sheet again.

"I was talking to you earlier."

"No, you weren't." John grins.

"No, not really," Sherlock agrees, shifting his gaze. "You weren't there. Where did you say you are?"

"Birmingham."

"When did you leave?"

"Yesterday."

"Oh." Sherlock is studiously not looking at him. "Well, I've solved the case."

"Yeah?" John's voice is full of fondness. "Wish I could have been there," he says.

There was a pause.

"When do you expect to return?"

"Tomorrow."

"Oh." Sherlock gives a brief nod, still not looking at him. John decides to take pity.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"I miss you, too."


	4. Chapter 4

John does not share this experience with Sherlock. He is not completely sure why he doesn't, but he supposes, alone in his bedroom, that his friend will not understand why it has upset him, and will therefore be unable to help. There is no point frustrating him. Boring him even. Interrupting him, in fact; he is busy conducting some sort of experiment downstairs.

That is when Sherlock appears in his doorway.

John looks up from folding back the duvet, and turns. Sherlock's eyes rake him up and down, his bottom lip drawn into his mouth. His light blue eyes narrow. John stops what he is doing to stand up straight and fold his arms across his chest.

"John, I think that if you are allowed the privilege of asking after my well-being on a semi-weekly basis, I should be allowed more-or-less the same."

John narrows his eyes as well. He cocks his head. "You think so?" Inwardly, he is surprised.

"I do."

"Well, then..." John can't conceal the genuine smile that dawns as they watch each other. He walks over to Sherlock, who is looking wary. "Privilege granted." His tone is not overly mocking.

Sherlock's hands are resting in the trouser pockets of his charcoal-grey suit. John sees his fingers clench through the fabric. He fleetingly wonders _why_ his hands are there.

"How are you...then?"

The question is odd and uncharacteristic. John knows this is no coincidence. "A bit...sad," he says.

Sherlock studies at him the way he would do a promising new piece of evidence. John licks his lips, averting his eyes. The consulting detective is waiting for more clues.

"Sarah had a...patient. Who...died today. I used to talk to him sometimes."

Sherlock says nothing for a long while. John grows tired of standing there, and returns to his bed, sitting down upon the edge of it. He frowns down at his hands.

Sherlock is suddenly standing in front of him, towering above him. He seems to recognise this, for he kneels down. He speaks quietly, "Make me understand, John."

John touches his face. "It's okay, Sherlock."

"No." Sherlock's mouth sets. The crinkle at the bridge of his nose that endears John so much is there, very much so. "Please."

To say that John is in a state of shock would be...somewhat inaccurate, and an understatement. This is Sherlock - _Sherlock_ - actually wanting to understand how John is feeling. Why John is feeling this way. Wanting to help, perhaps. It is huge.

"Well," John swallows. "He was a man...who...I was used to seeing." His voice shakes. "He was a very nice old fellow. Now he's...gone. A-and I'll never see him again. Do you understand how that might...?" he trails off.

Sherlock appears to be concentrating rather hard. Moments pass, and his expression turns suddenly horrorstruck. "You could say that I'm used to seeing you. It's like if you disappeared and I never saw you again? It's like that, John? Is it?"

"Definitely not," says John, a bit overwhelmed, "no. No, Sherlock, speaking from my point of view, if I never saw _you_ again - it wouldn't feel anything like this. It would feel much, _much_ worse. So, no. Unless...I mean, if your expression is anything to go by..." He runs his hands through Sherlock's curls and kisses him gently on the forehead.

Sherlock removes John's hands from his hair and clasps them between his own. He shakes his head, telling him no. John is hurt and stung until Sherlock leans forwad and returns a kiss to his cheek.

"I'm still here, John, if it helps."


	5. Chapter 5

There are footsteps on the stairs. John doesn't pay much attention to them, wrapped up as he is in updating his blog, until they reach the door to the flat, which opens. John glances up, then back down, and back up, his eyes wide.

Sherlock is standing in the middle of the room wearing a massive scowl. His clothes are askew, his hair wildly mussed. And he is absolutely covered...in lipstick. The marks are on his neck and face. John gapes.

There is a moment of silence.

"Don't. You. _Dare_," Sherlock says dangerously.

"No, no." John holds up his hands. "Erm..." He bursts out laughing.

Sherlock growls and stalks off into the kitchen, presumedly to clean himself up. John gets up and follows him, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. He tries to speak, but ends up bursting into more laughter.

"For God sakes..." Sherlock mutters at the sink. His ears are a bit pink.

"Oh, Sherlock," John chuckles, and hiccups himself back into sobriety. "What happened to you?"

"It's perfectly obvious what happened to me."

"You were attacked - but not by one of your enemies, I assume," John manages to say with a straight face.

Sherlock wets a cloth. "It was Mycroft."

John falls over laughing, having to lean against the wall for support. "You - that was - was that a joke? Did you just make a joke?"

"I am not incapable," Sherlock replies, frowning as he begins to wipe down his face. Once John regains a sense of himself once more, he goes over to him and takes the cloth; he will do a much better job of it. He is smiling so widely, his cheeks hurt. He pushes back Sherlock's fringe and wipes at the lipstick marks all over his forehead.

"Jesus, they were thorough, weren't they?" he chuckles. Sherlock shifts.

"How do you know there was more than one?" he asks.

"Come on. If it were one girl, she'd never have had the courage to maul you by herself. But with a girlfriend or two - sorry, Sherlock, but you really didn't have a chance." John chuckles again, picturing the scene in his mind. "No need to be embarrassed about it, though. You should be flattered."

"Flattered?" Sherlock repeats incredulously.

"Yes, it means they like what you do." John moves the cloth down his throat, and scrubs gently at the mark directly underneath his ear.

"No, John, _you_ like what I do," Sherlock corrects him. "Those girls, however, fans though they surely are, do not like what I _do_; they pant and salivate over what I _look_ like, sound like. They fall into the category of Fan Type B: My-Bedroom-is-Just-a-Taxi-Ride-Away. They have no appreciation for my work, so therefore, their opinions do not matter to me and I cannot find it within myself to feel _flattered_."

John finishes with the mark below the ear and moves to his nose. "Oh," he says condescendingly, pouting his lips, "lighten up. You never know. They might be _huge_ fans of your powers of deduction, not just your cheekbones. But who can blame them if that's not the case?" he murmurs, turning his attention to a mark very close to his lips.

John very nearly drops the cloth when Sherlock blushes.


End file.
